15? 30?
by Mika Uriah
Summary: She squeezes my knee, smiles and whispers in my ear “I have friends like you, and a husband like Scott, I’m perfect.” She winked. What was that supposed to mean? Friends like me?


I have no idea what possessed me to do it today.

What possessed me to look in the mirror as I was getting undressed for the shower?

What possessed me today of all days to look closely at all the imperfections that make me, me?

My too dark skin; I know in this country many people find me quite exotic, but where I come from, the lighter you are the prettier you are.

I am far from the light skin, ivory that seems to make Jean so stunning here.

What was found to be exotic here, found me to be a demon back home.

I sighed.

Maybe those who thought that I was a demon might've had something to that argument.

I examine my skin closer, and run the pads of my fingers up and down the scars on my 5 foot 10 inch frame.

Some of them from doctors and surgeries and old battle scars.

Some of them self inflicted.

Thank the bright lady they can all be hidden.

My hair to white, my eyes too blue, everything looks fake, unfortunately its a part of my mutation and everything is quite real.

Yes, the curtains match the rug, No I'm not wearing contacts.

Yes, I'm a freak, thank you for noticing.

My breast are too large.

My abdominal muscles are too defined to be considered sexy for a woman.

My 'child-bearing hips' are too wide as well.

My metabolism has gone haywire, and I'm constantly gaining and loosing weight; and I can't control it.

Charles called me into his office the other day and asked me if I "needed to talk" he was acting as if I was a teenager with an eating disorder.

Imagine.

I guess I could stand to loose a few more pounds.

Maybe it would even everything out.

I pinch an inch of fat that I can't seem to make disappear.

Maybe if I run an extra mile or two tomorrow.

I look at the pile of marking on my desk.

Goddess why couldn't there be 26 or, better yet, 30 hours in the day instead of 24?

I look at myself in the mirror closer, and I think about all the stuff in the magazines that make me swoon, and how long it has been since I've had an actual date, never mind had anyone to make swoon.

Jean's red-hair, that matched her fiery temperament and green eyes, Rogue's smallish breast that were just the 'perfect handful' their narrow hips that made it possible for them to the smallest sizes and the tightest clothes.

I know I am being immature about this.

Have you seen them? they are perfect, even with their 'mutations.'

As I am in the show my mind goes back to what I ate for lunch and all the calories I assumed over the last week, I dunno why its just where my mind goes and I start to feel nauseous.

Drying off I look at the toilet and think that if I throw it up I won't feel so bad, I hate throwing up though.

Besides, I'm an Xmen, a Goddess, a teacher, I'm supposed to talk kids out of eating disorders not develop one myself.

I shook my head, and look at the clock, its 5:00, almost time for dinner. Again. Goddess some days I wish I just don't have to eat, I mean honestly the amount of food that is shared on our plate from the chef it makes me wonder that we aren't all 300 pounds.

I pull a pair of Jeans with a cute butterfly embroidered on the pack pockets and I know that Jean has the same pair in a size six, and I think about taking them off but I sigh and leave them on, throwing over a loose top to cover them up.

Did you know that according to my BMI, Body Mass Index, I am considered to be overweight?

In my head as I walk down the stairs I mentally do some math and try to figure out how many calories I can eat at dinner and still loose weight and not feel guilty, and my head starts to hurt again.

I sit down and I realize that Jean by some freaky coincidence, or not, I can never tell with her; Jean is wearing a similar outfit to mine and smiles "ha! great minds Rory." and winked.

I hate it when they call me that. "Ororo." I almost want to say, but I don't.

I shrug and smile.

I push the food around on my plate, I honestly don't feel hungry, but I gotta make a show of it, or I'm going to get questioned again.

15 pounds and I'll be a size six,

15 more and maybe I'll be confident in wearing that purple number that Kitty persuaded me to by for the gala coming up.

Jean notices that I'm not eating, she's sitting beside me, of course she'll notice.

"Are you, okay, Rory? Spaghetti Bolognese is usually your favorite are you not feeling well?"

She goes to feel my forehead in front of everyone at the table, like I'm a toddler and I quickly move out of the way.

Maybe a little to quickly and I deliver a tight smile,

I don't apologize.

Why would I? I didn't do anything wrong.

"Sorry, I'm fine. I'm just not hungry." I got back and start to play with the food on my plate.

I feel Charles looking at me, he's trying to read my thoughts I know he is; usually it bothers me, I don't know why today it doesn't.

Maybe he'll get what is really bugging me.

Maybe he'll be able to explain it to me.

It has been a while since I have talked to Jean and I find myself struggling to make small-talk with someone who used to be my best friend.

"So..how are you doing Jean?" thats the best that I can come up with sorry. I know of a low fast recipe with Spaghetti Bolognese that is 315 calories, this isn't it.

We don't do anything 'low fat' in this place.

I feel sick again.

I can't make myself vomit.

Laxatives maybe? Is that too drastic?

Jean smiles, her teeth are perfectly white and straight, she takes a well manicured hand and puts it on my knee, her peaches and cream skin rests against my too black arm, and I convince myself that I'm not really that dark, I've just spent too much time in the sun and I keep forgetting sunscreen.

Joys sun cancer.

Another thing to add to the list of things that are wrong with me.

Or would that be short term memory since I often forget to put it on?

She squeezes my knee, smiles and whispers in my ear "I have friends like you, and a husband like Scott, I'm perfect." She winked.

What was that supposed to mean? Friends like me?

Why cause being friends with an over weight, illegal immigrant, with no doctorate and two dark skin and too blue eyes make her better?

Makes her more perfect.

As if she needs to be more perfect.

I push the plate away from me and go upstairs.

15 more pounds. I walk up stairs.

"Was it something I said?" I could hear Jean's voice from the landing.

Maybe, I can make it 30.

--FIN--


End file.
